Within Reach
by delphicallydoomed
Summary: This time however, something was ripped away that he could never replace. Nothing in the world now would heal his limp, or the tightness in his hands as he struggled with clenching his fists. The cane became a permanent extension of John once again.


"I'm in heaven.. I'm in heaven and I'm with you, I'm in heaven."

The words spilled from his mouth, in mumbles and shocked little laughs, unceasing. Desperate arms had pulled him close, wrapping him up, as he gripped the man's shirt, wet droplets falling onto his skin. He couldn't help but thinking, why he hadn't done this sooner, when all along this was right within his reach.

"I'm here John, I'm here." Slow and reassuring, was Sherlock's voice, with the same deep tones it always had. It had been far too long since he'd heard the sound, only but an echo in his mind. There they were again, like before, at 221B Baker Street, together. So this was heaven.

John had no longer felt anything. No more when resting in the sitting room would he cringe when he saw the empty space where his partner would settle in. He wouldn't choke passing Scotland Yard, or upon seeing the solemn expressions of Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson. Perhaps the sadness in their faces stemmed from the empty eyes of the person looking back at them. Months it had been since a distant tune of violin haunted his ears.

It was almost as though he was cut off, detached. The thrill, the light and spark in his life, was gone, extinguished, and it had, at first been nostalgic of his return from the war. This time however, something was ripped away that he could never replace. Nothing in the world now would heal his limp, or the tightness in his hands as he struggled with clenching his fists. The cane became a permanent extension of John once again.

His hands did not shake once as he cleaned and loaded his gun.

John's mind drifted back towards memories of his service as he wiped down the barrel. Frequently there would be mornings, or rather, times in the middle of the night where he would get called into the bunks. Gunning was the most common method, and while the men stuck with cleaning duty sopped up the blood off the walls, it was his job to identify the soldier, gun, and if there was a chance of survival. Rarely would one miss the target; they knew exactly where to shoot to kill. John knew too. It was their duty, after all.

In this case, he knew he would fall among the statistics of the increasing number of soldiers offing themselves after being discharged. The cause would be filed as PTSD. Their friends and colleagues would know much better.

He had enough sense to arrange avoiding poor Mrs. Hudson to be the one finding him. Lestrade was scheduled to be over shortly after, called in to discuss a possible case John claimed to have on hand. What a case the detective inspector would step in to. With his landlady out and about in London, things would run smoothly. She wouldn't be back before his body was carried off in an ambulance. John hoped that whatever new tenants she found would be a bit less of a stress than her boys were. Even now, Mrs. Hudson seemed to always be watching, worrying over him.

The process of loading his gun was manual, almost robotic. A calm seemed to wash over him in waves, sending a shudder down his spine. John would not let himself feel through this. All the locked away, bottled up pain and heartache would continue to suppress itself until it unraveled, away into the void with this one tug of his finger.

"Lord, forgive me," he prayed quietly under his breath. It was time now, he could not help it any longer. John had held on long enough, and his fingers were slipping off the edge of the cliff he was holding onto.

He held the gun in his hands, taking a deep breath and raising it up level with his head. Heart in his throat, and pounding so loud it filled his ears with a dull throb, John thought he heard the slam of a door. Christ, how insane, and now he was hearing things. Or maybe it was a typical reaction the brain had in a person's last self inflicted moments.

"John!"

Sherlock. His mind flew to the name, the voice, the familiar sound, muffled by the pulse in his head. Sherlock was calling to him, ah that was it. They would be joined soon, John was sure of it, and allowing the thought in, silent tears began rolling down his cheeks. A quivering smile came from his lips, a choked laugh.

"Sherlock, I'm coming, I am," John whispered shakily, hardly hearing the calls of his name and the banging of feet up steps, nor the door ripping open as he pulled the barrel forward into his mouth and closed his eyes. Tilt down, trigger finger steady.

"For god's sake, JOHN!"

The shot rang through Sherlock's ears as the sound drowned out his words, deafening him.

Hands grasping at John's were what jolted his eyes open, yanking the gun from his mouth as his finger curled around the trigger. The gun crashed against the wall, pitched away by the hands now pulling John forward. A loud ringing in his ears muffled the words flowing from Sherlock's mouth as he held on tight to John, one hand cradling his head the other holding him close and tight.

"That was fast," he mumbled, sinking into Sherlock's hold. "I'm in heaven.. I'm in heaven and I'm with you, I'm in heaven." John was incredulous, and suddenly filled with a rush of bliss. It was all he needed all along. To pull that one little latch and he would be with him once again. He gripped onto Sherlock's shirt, tears streaming down his face and onto the man's pale skin as he buried his face into his neck.

Sherlock slowed his voice, collecting himself and forming rational, soft words, holding and rocking John. "I'm here John, I'm here," he assured, though whether John could tell if it was reality or not, he could not determine. "John I'm so sorry."

His head tipped, looking up at Sherlock, frowning, slightly confused by the man's choice of words. His eyes were red, as if almost brimmed by tears as well, something John had never seen on him.

"No apologies, don't you see, we're both gone now, we're together." Sherlock scoffed, choking out small laugh. How simple and naive such a scenario that would be.

"Do you honestly believe if I were dead I would end up in heaven?" John's facial expression grew increasingly more confused. The possibility that he was still alive had not occurred to him. He just assumed, hearing the shot, immediately joined by the man he had been missing from his life, was that not what heaven was supposed to be? Sherlock was dead, he had exhausted any possible route that could have been taken to make the reality, cold as the pavement he watched Sherlock's blood pool on top of, fake.

But John wasn't nearly as clever as the man himself, was he? John groaned.

"Lestrade will arrive in around fifteen minutes," he settled on responding, somewhat successfully shutting down the rampant thoughts of what all this meant.

"So you were going to let him find you in a bloody mess?" Sherlock frowned, gripping tight onto John, who gritted his teeth, jaw clenched.

"May you please just give me a moment Sherlock?" Nodding slowly, Sherlock obeyed the snappy tone, watching John carefully, for once unable to read John's emotions.

John was holding on tight, his hands placed on Sherlock's back. They began to move, grabbing and feeling at him, as though making positive he was truly there, no hallucinations, heaven or otherwise. He pulled back, moving up Sherlock's neck and touching his face, fingers running along his jaw and cheekbone as the man watched, having relaxed into John's curious contact. With one hand on Sherlock's cheek, the other hooked around, full swing, in a fist to his face.

With a shocked wince, Sherlock toppled over, clutching at his cheek and groaning. John sat, holding his own wrist and watching as he flexed his fingers.

"You deserved that," he said simply as the other gawked at the blood dribbling from his split cheek.

"Yes.. yes I did."

John did not want to ask questions. He did not want to talk. He just wanted Sherlock by his side without a moment away. At the given point it time it mattered not to him why or how he had survived, only that he was there with John and not leaving his sight.

Luckily, the cut on Sherlock's face was not in need of stitches, although the detective would not have put it past John to have given him that, and much worse. They were silent, John wrapping his head around the fact that Sherlock Holmes was sitting there, in the flesh in front of him on the toilet while he administered medical attention. He winced as hydrogen peroxide bubbled and stung over the cut.

"I had a right mind to take that gun and shoot you in the face you know."

Sherlock's eyes followed John's movements as he dabbed a damp towel over his cheek. Somebody loved him, avoiding his nose and teeth. The doorbell could be heard ringing as Lestrade surely arrived at the door, though John made no movement to go and answer, awaiting Sherlock's response. Sherlock drummed his fingers over his leg.

"Better I to die than you."


End file.
